Nothing Happens to Me
by FrankieMittens
Summary: So what if John never stopped going to the therapist? Each chapter will take place after each episode, with some possible liberties to be taken in terms of the nature of the S/J relationship. Maybe. Last chapter up - after the fall.
1. Prologue

Right, so – testing this out to see if anyone's interested in reading more. I don't know if this has been done by someone already, if so, didn't mean to rip you off!

So what it John continued going to the therapist all through the time he knew Sherlcok? This will be a fic based on those sessions, each chapter taking place after each episode – after this prologue there will be a session after Study in Pink and so forth, all the way to the bitter end.

But I might take some liberties.. Being an avid supporter of S/J pairing. We will see.

Let me know what you think, and above all if you are keen to read more so I know if it's worth continuing.

ML

All usual disclaimers apply, of course.

PS If anyone out there would be interested in being my beta, drop me a PM.

x

x

"Nothing happens to me."

It wasn't like John would have been feeling sorry for himself. Well, not at least entirely; he genuinely meant what he said. Nothing did happen, or at least nothing felt like anything ever since coming back home. And how could it, really, after what he had seen and experienced in Afghanistan? Now when he was back in England his life had fallen into that of unimpressive, uneventful existence; he felt he had little purpose and the days that consisted of waking up, staying awake and going back to sleep were not exactly enough to keep him content. And it wasn't only that, even - it sometimes annoyed him, seeing all these people with their so-called difficulties and problems, their self-inflicted drama and petty feuds when he had seen his friends being blown up to pieces and having to have to be aware of the possibility of his own sudden death every waking second. _That_ was a difficulty.

Ella tilted her head ever so slightly and wrote something down. John didn't bother to read it. As she was writing, she said, "Why do you say that?"" Her tone was pleasant, calm and non-threatening as it always was.

John shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's true?" He felt slightly frustrated with the situation and it probably showed in his voice.

Ella lifted her eyes from her writing pad and clicked her pen. "What would you want to happen, then?"

John was about to reply with something mundane but then stopped to think. What _did_ he want? He wanted the nightmares to stop; he wanted to feel normal again. He wanted something to do, something that would grant him with a sense of purpose. Perhaps he wanted to meet someone, someone he could spend time with. It wasn't that much to ask, was it? But for some reason he couldn't say these things to the therapist sitting opposite to him, looking at him with her understanding eyes; John just didn't feel comfortable talking about these kinds of things. Not with her, not with anyone; that was just the way he was.

Ella glanced at her watch. Apparently the time slot John had been provided with had came to its end.

"Why don't we talk about that more the next time. Or you can write about into your blog, whatever option feels more comfortable for you." If Ella was disappointed in John's lack of cooperation she hid it well. She stood up and offered her hand for John to shake. "I'll see you in two weeks, then."

John got up as well and shook her hand. She was taller than him, a beautiful woman; for a brief second John wondered if she would go out with him after this charade of a therapy would be over. "Looking forward to." John's tone wasn't exactly in tune with his words.

x

x

x

It was a beautiful day. John stepped out from the building and inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of fresh air on his skin. One thing he did like about being back was London, its life and pulse; it really was too bad he couldn't afford to live there.

He glanced at his watch and realized he had plenty of time before catching the bus back. The leg didn't feel too bad today - maybe he should walk around a bit. There was a lovely park close by and he started to head to its general direction.


	2. Study in Pink

So, this takes place after Study in Pink. Hope you like, all usual disclaimers apply. Thanks for reading!

ML

x

x

Ella sat behind her desk, finishing up the paperwork of her previous patient. The day had been long and she could feel a mild headache in the back of her head; she only hoped that it wouldn't turn into a full-fledged migraine later in the evening. She filed the papers away and leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs as she did. Rubbing her temples she glanced at the clock on the wall; it was five to three PM. She had only one patient left, surely she would get through that. For a few seconds she allowed herself to think about the night ahead and muse on the relaxing solitude that was waiting for her - the husband was away on business - but quickly returned her focus on the present.

She turned to her computer and with a few clicks had the files of the day's last patient in front of her. It was John Watson, an army doctor recently demobilized from Afghanistan, suffering from PTSD. Quickly Ella restored the main points of their previous session from her memory; it didn't take her long to dig up the image of the man in question from their first meeting two weeks ago. John seemed to be a quiet, somewhat reserved man with quite traditional values and a solid look on life, now shaken by the experiences he had had in the war. Ella had found him to be intelligent and cordial, to the point of appearing stiff; but she had thought that there was something else underneath the surface, something that John Watson was, if not hiding, at least keeping to himself.

There was a knock on the door that woke Ella up from her thoughts. The clock of her computer said it was three o'clock; the punctuality of a soldier didn't fail.

"Come in, John." She didn't turn her eyes from the screen as she was just closing the files she had been going through. Instead she heard as the door opened and Dr. Watson walked in; and in a second she realized from the even pace of his footsteps on the hard-wood floor of her office that his limp was gone.

She looked at him with interest as he walked to the chair next to the window; perfectly balanced gate, no sight of any limp whatsoever. His posture was straight as it had been on the first meeting as well - Ella had paid attention to this - but now there was an aura of ease on him, something that most certainly hadn't been there before. Dr. Watson remained standing next to the chair, looking at her, his hands on his sides, as if waiting for her next move. Ella stood up herself and walked to him, offering him her hand to shake.

"John, good to see you." There was genuine warmth in her voice as she greeted him. His handshake was firm and short and the look in his eyes very calm and very solid; this man was all about getting straight to the point but always with the courtesy of a gentleman.

She let go of his hand and looked at him from head to toes. "I see that you are well?" She nodded towards his leg.

John smiled a bit, his face gaining youthfulness as he did. He patted his thigh. "Yes, I am indeed." The smile on his face coloured his voice and Ella found herself to like him a bit more.

Smiling Ella gestured him to sit down. "Please."

Ella took out her notepad and leaned back in her chair. She spent a few seconds observing the man in front of him, and could only confirm her initial feelings as he had walked in; there was definitely something changed in him. John appeared to be more relaxed, his shoulders were not tense anymore; he didn't fold his arms in a defensive gesture as he had the previous time but allowed them to rest on the armrests. As he sat there, looking at her with that calm look on his face, his whole body language was oozing of a new kind of energy.

Ella clicked her pen and smiled at him. "So, what happened? I see the limp is gone."

John grinned at him, looking very boyish as he did. "It is, yes. I sort of... forgot about it." He shrugged his shoulders as if to emphasize the casualty of the matter.

Ella raised her eyebrow in a silent question. "Forgot about it? What do you mean?"

John stayed silent for a while as if he had been thinking; but the smile still flickered in the corner of his mouth. "Well, I met this man - he is my flatmate now, actually - and - I know this is going to sound odd, but we sort of chased someone and I just forgot about the limp." John had an expression of "what-can-I-say" on his face.

Ella wrote down the words _flatmate_ and_ chase?_. Then she raised her eyes from the notepad only to catch John staring at what she had just wrote down. "It is not rare, actually, for a psychalgia to heal like this. People often think it takes a lengthy process of therapy and even medication, but sometimes a change in conditions is all it takes. So tell me more about this man, this- I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name? Ella paid very close attention to John and his reactions; they didn't reveal much at the moment.

John sifted a bit but the expression on his face didn't change. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Ella wrote the name down. "And you said he is your..flatmate now?" Her tone was very neutral.

John nodded. "Yes." And then, as if he had thought of something, he added, "It's nothing like that, though, we're just flatmates."

Ella tilted her head a bit. "Like what, John?" Of course she understood what he was talking about; but it was interesting that he would emphasize the fact so strongly. In fact, it was now for the first time during the whole time Ella had spent with Dr. Watson that his cool had broken down a bit.

John shrugged. "You know. Like he would be my boyfriend."

Ella nodded. "OK. But you are friends?"

John looked slightly hesitant, so she continued. "The reason I'm asking because it is good if you make new social contacts. It will significantly help you to adjust to civilian life."

John rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I don't know if he can actually be called a social contact." He articulated the word "social" very carefully.

Ella looked surprised. "Why do you say that?" It was a peculiar statement to make of someone, and Ella couldn't help wondering what type of man this Sherlock Holmes actually was.

John crossed his fingers on his lap and leaned back in his chair. He stayed silent for a while as if thinking of what to sat; and when he finally spoke his voice had thoughtfulness in it. "He is not like anyone I have met before. He is terribly intelligent, to the point of being intimidating, and lacks most of the basic social skills the rest of us have. But he is... fascinating to be around with." John's eyes were directed somewhere behind Ella's left shoulder.

Ella wrote the characterization down and lifted her eyes back to John. "Sounds interesting. What does he do?"

John shook his head and looked back into her eyes. He appeared to have gained back his calm. "I'm not exactly sure. He says he is a consulting detective, whatever that actually means."

"Consulting detective? Like a private eye or something?" There was genuine interest in Ella's voice. This was certainly something you didn't come across with every day.

"I'm not entirely sure. But I guess I will find out, eventually." John's words were accompanied with a small smile that seemed to say "oh-you-know-what-it's-like".

She didn't, actually, but it didn't really matter. "Well, I think it is very good that you are making new contacts. And obviously Mr. Holmes had his part in you getting rid of your limp, so I can only support this kind of development. Which brings me to my question about the future of our sessions - do you wish to continue? The army has already paid for four more times, but it is up to you if you want to see me again. I personally think it might be good, but like I said, it is entirely up to you."

John looked thoughtful for a moment and then replied, "I might as well. Can't hurt."

Ella smiled a warm, open smile. "I'm glad. So, shall we talk about what else you have been up to besides chasing people with your new flatmate?"

x

x

x

After the session was over and John had left, Ella sat down in her chair and thought about him. He was an interesting man, reserved but genuine; and there had been a visible change in him since their first meeting. It wasn't only due to the lack of the limp; there was different kind of energy in him, a whole new level of vitality. She couldn't quite tell what the cause of it was but suspected strongly that this Sherlock Holmes might have something to do with it.

During the rest of their appointment Dr. Watson had returned to Sherlock a few more times; it could easily be interpreted as him making quite an impact to John. On what way, Ella couldn't tell - based on what John had mentioned Mr. Holmes seemed to be quite an eccentric, exceptional human being, and it could be that only the unusual manner of his character caused John to talk about him that much. It could also be that because of the military service, John had been somewhat deprived of the normal type of human contacts for so long that now that he had one it gained more importance; perhaps he had been lonely. It was also possible that John harvested feelings deeper than friendship for the man, but that was also something Ella had no way of knowing based on one conversation.

Whatever it was, Ella had a feeling this wouldn't be the last she would hear of Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Blind Banker

I'm terribly sorry this has taken so long for me to continue - not that I know if anyone is reading this, anyway - but here is the session that takes place after the Blind Banker. It would mean the world to me to hear your comments, and above all it would tell me if it's worth continuing writing this.

Thanks,

ML

* * *

The Blind Banker

Ella glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. It was nearly a quarter past four; John's appointment had been scheduled at four. It was unusual for him to be late - in fact, Ella couldn't recall any other occasion where the army doctor would have failed to show up exactly on time.

_First time for everything, _she thought. The numerous years she had practiced her profession had taught Ella not to get too fond of her patients; she couldn't allow herself to worry about them outside the scheduled hours. Now, however, she had to remind herself of that policy; even if there was no real reason to think that John Watson would have got himself in some serious trouble, this kind of behaviour - so unusual for his whole character - made Ella feel slightly unease.

The truth was the she _did _like John; at times she wondered if she liked him too much. There was something in the man that appealed to her on a level she didn't want to name - maybe it was that unique combination of strength and softness she got from him, maybe the way she had a few times caught him looking at her, like he would have seen something in her she hadn't wanted to reveal - whatever it was, John Watson no doubt had a place little bit more special in her mind than any of her other patient.

Ella flipped her calendar open to double-check the time of the appointment. No, there was no mistake there - the appointment was scheduled at four o'clock on the dot. Looking at her watch she decided to give him five more minutes and then try to reach him from his cell phone. Something she usually refrained from doing - if a patient wanted to skip their paid appointments, up to them - but this time she felt an exception was in order.

It was not, however, necessary. Two minutes had passed from the time frame Ella had set when there was a loud knock on the door.

"Come in." Her voice was neutral with a friendly undertone, but the little jolt of relief she felt over his showing up didn't make its way to colour her tone. As John stepped into the room, looking a little embarrassed, Ella stood up to greet him with a cordial smile on her face.

John took her offered hand and shook it firmly. "I'm so sorry I'm late." His voice was low and pleasant as always, but Ella saw that his chest was rising and lowering in a bit more hastier rate than normal and that pearls of sweat were forming on his temples. John must have hurried.

Ella let his hand go and gestured him to sit down. "Not at all." She did so herself as well, and only then John followed the example. _Proper gentleman_, Ella thought to herself.

John took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair which squeaked a bit under his weight. "Yes, I'm terribly sorry. I got a bit.. wrapped up."

"Happens to the best of us. I trust everything is in order?" She observed him as she spoke. John appeared to be well, his skin had got a bit tanned and his hair had a new cut in it - nothing extravagant but slightly different than before - and he seemed to be a bit wider on the shoulders. New gym regime, perhaps?

John sneered but the expression on his face conveyed mostly amusement. "Yes, or as much as it can be. It's my flatmate, you see - Sherlock - he almost managed to set the house on fire."

Now that he mentioned it, there was a faint smell of smoke lingering around him. "Oh, that certainly is a valid reason for a minor delay. What on earth happened?"

John shook his head. "He does these... experiments, I think you could call them, and sometimes, well, they just go wrong. Not a big deal but made me miss the bus." John didn't appear to find it strange at all that the man he was sharing a flat with did things that could possibly set the flat in question in fire, so Ella chose to behave accordingly.

"Well, I'm glad that's the worst it resulted in, then. So, how have you been besides this latest incident?" She clicked her pen and looked at him with an open, calm expression on her face.

As usual, when presented with this particular question John had minor difficulties in answering in it. Sometimes Ella wondered why he bothered to come to see her in the first place - he really was not what you could call a man of many words, at least when it came to discussing about his personal life. This time, however, John seemed to be a on a good mood, and the words came easier and in a larger amount than normally.

"Goog, good, I've been good. I got a job, actually, been working in this surgery. It's nothing special, three nights a week, but it helps to pay the rent and it's good to get out from the house every now and then."

Ella smiled at him. "That's good news. How do you feel working with civilians? Must be quite different than working in the army."

John shrugged as if to imply that it wasn't all that different. "I like it. It's quite small a place, local centre of sorts, so there are all kinds of people coming in there. It is interesting, and the staff is nice. Yeah, I like it."

"So you intend on staying with them for now?"

"At least for a while, yes. We'll see how long they will keep me." He chuckled but light nervousness flickers in his eyes, very briefly but enough for Ella to notice it and grasp it.

She leaned forward, just an inch. "Why would you say that?"

John fell silent for a while as if to think how to place his words. His eyes escaped for s few seconds as they found something interesting behind the big scenery windows on his left. When he spoke again he sounded perhaps a bit embarrassed. "Well, there is this woman working there, the head of the surgery. Sarah. I kind of fancied her, and I took her out, but that didn't end too well and now it's a bit weird.. But we will see how it goes, I'm still hopeful." Then he grinned, a boyish smile that made him look younger than his years. "Not all is lost, as they say."

Ella was relieved to notice that she didn't feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy on the mention of his date. "It didn't end well? What happened?

John rubbed his jaw. "I guess she almost got killed on our first date."

The sound Ella's pen made when it dropped was surprisingly loud. The few seconds it took her to bend down and pick it up gave her the necessary moment to re-organize her thoughts. "Come again?"

John blew air out through his nose. "It's a bit of a long story, really.."

Ella glanced at the clock on the wall and tilted her head. "We have 40 minutes."

x

x

x

After John had finished his story - and Ella suspected he had left a few bits out - she didn't quite know what to think. It was not exactly ordinary to hear a patient telling about international crime syndicates, of smugglers and murders and near-death-encounters - and all this with the calmness that would have been fitting when discussing about the weather or the price of milk. Ella realized that John had probably seen quite a bit in his life - being in the war and serving there as a doctor cannot be a child's play - but even so, his attitude towards the chain of events he had opened up for her to marvel seemed almost odd. At times he had gained some colour in his voice as if he had been excited, but most of the time his description of the events had been very neutral, perhaps with a touch of fascination. Quite frankly, Ella would have expected John to have been more shaken by the events, more moved; but those kinds of emotions apparently weren't listed among the ones to be displayed by John H. Watson.

"So allow me to recap, just to make sure that I got this straight. Your friend's - Sherlock's - old university friend contacted you to get help in terms of finding out who had broken into their premises. This led you to find that not one but two men were murdered by Chinese smugglers, together with the sister of one of the gang members. As you were tracking these murderers down together with Sherlock, you ended up in a situation which nearly cost Sarah and possibly you your lives." None of Ella's previous thoughts were to be heard in her perfectly controlled voice.

John nodded. "Harshly along those lines, yes." Then he quickly added, "But it wasn't as bad as it probably sounds." His tone was almost apologetic.

Ella couldn't help but to smile sarcastically. "Getting almost killed by Chinese gangsters is not as bad as it sounds?"

John seemed uncomfortable until he caught the smile lurking in her eyes; it made his shoulders relax. "Look, I know that it sounds.. unconventional. But I don't feel distressed about it, and nobody got hurt."

Ella nodded and scribbled something on her notepad. She lifted her eyes to John and asked with a voice very calm, "Would you say that you enjoyed it? The excitement?"

John narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and measured the situation. He knew that in theory he could and probably should trust her; but on the other hand, he didn't necessarily want her to categorize him as some adrenaline-junkie, or self-destructive, or an ex-soldier with a hero complex. John knew that by now his life was far from ordinary, and it was all thanks to Sherlock; Ella had no way of knowing how it was to live with him even if John would have tried to explain. And for some reason, he necessarily didn't want to.

The truth was that Ella, or no one else for that matter could really understand how it was to share a space - and at this point, he might as well admit it - life - with Sherlock Holmes. John didn't fully understand it himself yet either; all he knew that he was enjoying his life far more than he had in a really long time, and he didn't want to sit here and listen that it was all due to some behavioural imbalance or because his experiences in the war had left him somehow scarred. No, he liked his life even if that meant that occasionally he was held to a gunpoint by a Chinese smuggler.

But how do you explain that to your psychiatrist?

John shifted slightly in his chair which again complained with a squeak. He looked at Ella with a very steady look in his eyes. "I won't deny that. The truth is that when I came back from Afghanistan I was very unhappy with my life. It's like you said; I had problems adjusting in civilian life. I felt I had no place here." He straightened his back. "But that has changed since I met Sherlock. I am not unhappy anymore, and even if he drives me mad every now and then, I would say that it is worth it. I would say that Sherlock Holmes is the best thing that has happened to me since I came back. Or one of the best things. I am not self-destructive and I am not on a mission to save the world, or in any other way trying to fill out the hole left by the service. I merely go where life takes me." John didn't turn his eyes away from hers.

Ella tilted her head. "Or Sherlock?"

John swallowed; very slightly but Ella didn't miss it. "He is part of it, yes." There was something in the eyes of the man opposite to her, something she couldn't quite grasp; and in an instant Ella realized that John probably didn't even know it was there.

Ella was just about to reply when there was a loud knock on the door and then, a fraction of a second later, it flew open and in dashed a man dressed in some kind of uniform - remarkably well-fitting, she couldn't help noticing. He was tall, slender and had wild hair which curled under the hat; in his right hand he had a small video camera and in his left some kind of flag; Ella couldn't tell what kind. The man stepped into the center of the room with two long steps and then remained standing still, as if only now realizing he had barged into a psychiatrist's session.

Ella's surprise over the turn of the events was well hidden in her voice if not on her face. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"

The man nodded to her. "Yes, pleasure to meet you, John's psychiatrist." His eyes were very intense, very clear; and when he looked at her, Ella felt it in her spine.

Without waiting for her to respond, Sherlock turned his eyes to John. "John, we must hurry, Gerard Huxley is leaving the country in two hours." His deep voice had more than a hint of impatience in it and he spoke fast.

John stared at Sherlock for a second with a mixture of disbelief and anticipation on his face, and then turned his eyes to Ella who nodded in approval. "We're done here anyway, it's five o'clock."

John stood up with an expression that could have been either embarrassment or gratitude or both and offered his hand for Ella to shake. "Sorry about this, and see you next time." He was already on his way out, following the haste Mr.: Holmes who had rushed out as quickly as he had entered.

Ella said to his back, "Until next time."

The door slammed shut and then it was quiet.

The two men had been out from the door so fast it was difficult to believe that they had been in the room in the first place. Ella remained sitting, gazing out from the large windows opening to the green courtyard. So this was Sherlock Holmes; it wasn't difficult now for Ella to see why he would have made such an impact on John.

It was a different question if that impact was for the better or worse; Ella made a mental note to keep an eye of the development of the situation. It was unclear to her as of yet what John's motives were, or his incentives; what were the reasons behind this somewhat peculiar relationship between him and his flatmate. It was obvious that the man had importance to John; but what did it mean for John Watson to have that kind of influence in his life remained unclear as of yet.

But somehow Ella knew that it wouldn't stay like that for long.


	4. The Great Game

Right, onwards! A long gap between chapters again but hey, if this fandom knows how to do something is wait.

Special thanks to jack63kids for the supportive message :)

Again, would love to hear your thoughts on this. But in any case, thank you for reading!

ML

* * *

The Great Game

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John had to admit to himself that he had started to feel what you could call relaxed around Ella. It had took its time, and John was very well aware of the fact that the experienced psychiatrist had sensed his attitude from the start. John's general approach had been reserved at best; but he also knew that she had never held it against him. But slowly, so slowly it had been almost unnoticeable, in the course of the weeks that had turned into months, during which John had regularly visited her, John had slowly started to lower his shields. He found himself talking about his feelings and views on things in a manner much more free than he had in the beginning of their patient-doctor relationship. It often happened that John surprised himself by bringing up subjects and issues he hadn't even acknowledged before they left his tongue and formed into words in the calm and comforting surroundings that was Ella's office. By allowing himself to associate freely in the presence of his psychiatrist John had already learnt a thing or two about himself, most important of them being that he didn't have to be the person he had shaped himself up to be until now. That he too could change, learn to have faith on other people and relieve some of the burden he had been carrying by himself for so long.

Now, it wasn't entirely accurate to say that John would have had trust issues, no matter what Ella had thought during some of their earlier sessions. It was true that he didn't open up easily - but then again, he was British, and had a British upbringing, and in the Watson family talking about one's feelings had never been on the list of things to do. There also hadn't been a particular incident or a scarring experience in the life of John Watson that would have stripped him of his trust towards a fellow human being; he had always just preferred to keep most of his issues as his own and rely first and foremost on himself. The years in the army and especially in the war had perhaps changed his attitude a bit as John had learnt that sometimes you had no choice but to trust others on the level far beyond your comfort zone, but even then it had been just that - uncomfortable. John hadn't exactly felt _distrust _towards his fellow soldiers, he just had trusted himself more. John had never been quite able to explain why this was so, where this weak confidence in others sprung from, nor was he particularly interested in it; it was just the way it had always been and he had never seen any reason as of why it would have needed to be otherwise.

That was, of course, before he had met Sherlock.

John had - obviously - understood from the start that Sherlock wasn't like anyone he had met before. His intelligence alone made him exceptional, but that wasn't the whole extent of it. John had met several intelligent people in his lifetime - granted, none of them probably came to Sherlock's level but some of them might have been pretty close - but they hadn't made an impact as strong as Sherlock. For some reason John felt a connection to him, on a level he couldn't explain; it wasn't mere awe brought about by his uniqueness. The truth was that John trusted Sherlock, despite all his flaws and defects. He wasn't able to explain how or why, but John knew that even if Sherlock was far from perfect he could rely on him, that Sherlock wouldn't let him down.

"John?" Ella's gentle voice woke John up from his thoughts with a startle. "Where did you go?"

A small smile not far from an embarrassed one spread on John's face. "Oh, sorry, didn't mean to drift off." His voice sounded apologetic.

"That's alright. What were you thinking about?" Her eyes, calm and trustworthy as ever, were looking directly into John's. He found it impossible to turn his look away even if he had wanted to.

Not that he necessarily did.

John cleared his throat a bit. He had been coming down with a cold for a while now, nothing that would have required bed rest but it still managed to keep him just a tad under the weather. "I was thinking about trust, actually."

Ella nodded. "Very important matter. What about it?"

John still didn't feel the need to look away from her eyes. It felt as if his words bore more relevance when uttered like this, carried by the bridge that was their eye contact. "How I used to not to have it." The hoarseness of his voice made him sound more emotional than he was.

"And now?" Ella's voice reminded John of the voice of his mother, how she used to talk to him when he was a small boy. Very kind, very warm; and still somehow distant, like the last barrier blocking the pure, unconstrained intimacy and compassion would have still been up.

John's hands, that had been resting on the arm rests of the chair, curled into fists. "Now... I think I have it." He allowed his fingers to straighten again, watching them as they did. "Or rather, I want to have it. I want to trust."

Ella nodded again and wrote something on her notebook. Then she looked up to John again. "What do you think has brought about this change? It is a big shift in your way of thinking."

John stayed silent for a while and allowed his eyes to travel around the room that had became so familiar to him over the course of months he had been coming in. The little bit worn-out, yet stylish chairs they were sitting in; the heavy desk made of wood, oak perhaps; the papers in neat piles on it; the diploma and a few tasteful yet unsurprising paintings on the wall that was painted white above the wooden panels; the big scenery windows to his left, no curtains in front of them . It had all become familiar to him, and John wasn't entirely sure whether that was a good thing or not.

Then he spoke again with a voice slightly lower than before. "I think Sherlock has a big part in it, to be honest."

John was able to see something flickering on Ella's face by the mention of his name. It would have been wrong to call it a shadow or a frown, but the name of John's flatmate definitely did not pass without notice. Whatever it had been, it was gone as fast as it had emerged, and her expression returned back to normal.

"Well, that is only natural. Given that he is your first proper civilian contact in a really long time, and that you share a flat with him - To be honest, I would be more surprised if he wouldn't have anything to do with it." Ella's eyes were deep and calm.

John felt a tinge inside himself he didn't recognize. "I think... I think it's more than that."

Ella nodded, so slightly it wasn't maybe even there. "More than..." Her tone urged him to continue.

John got a hold of the feeling inside him. It was annoyance. "I think it's not only because we are flatmates." His voice was a bit firmer than it had been.

Ella didn't reply immediately; in the silence between their words the ticking of the clock on the wall sounded very loud. Then she spoke, her voice soft and relaxed as a cat waking up from a nap. "So why is it, then?"

By now John saw what she was doing - pushing him to get a reaction - but he was willing to play her game. "Well, we are friends, for starters."

Ella flicked the pages of her notebook. "But you have other friends as well. Mike. William. Billy. And you even have Sarah, who I believe could be categorized as your girlfriend. Surprising as that is, considering the.. incident. How about the importance of them?" It was remarkable how she managed sound genuinely puzzled.

John felt like rolling his eyes but got a hold of himself before he did. "I've always had mates, that's not it. And girlfriends. Even though I think the thing with Sarah is drawing to its end. But anyway, it's not the same."

Ella leaned back in her chair. "How is it not the same? Besides you not living with none of them but with Sherlock?"

John paused for a while to think. Why wasn't it the same, actually? For a brief moment he entertained himself with the thought that he would be flatmates with, say, Mike. He pictured himself sitting in the living room of 221b with Mike, eating breakfast with Mike (or rather, Mike watching John having breakfast and possibly inquiring whether or not John would mind eating something Mike had created with his chemistry kit, just as a test), staying up all night involuntarily because there were strange noises coming from Mike's room, reading the newspaper to Mike because he was too lazy to do it himself, besides he neede to multi-task, waking up in the morning and finding Mike sitting in the exact same position he had been the previous night -

No, it definitely would not be the same.

But now John himself was also interested in the reason.

During his musings Ella had sat there, waiting patiently for him to continue. As he did there was a slight change in his tone, actually in his whole demeanor; and for a brief second John wondered if Ella had noticed it.

"Now that you asked.. To be completely honest, I don't know. I mean... Of course, I guess, it is partly to do with the fact that I spend a lot of time with him. That he is around constantly. But I've been around people before, good friends, very good.. In the war I shared a tent with a guy for six months and now we don't even exchange Christmas cards. So it can't be all. So..." His voice trailed off and there was a look of confusion on his face.

Ella stepped in to help. "So you don't know why you find Sherlock to be so significant. You've mentioned during the earlier sessions about all kinds of, how to say, adventures, you have gone through with him - maybe that is a part of it? That he provides you with some excitement, a break from daily routines?" Ella had question in her voice; but she probably knew John wouldn't swallow her offer of an explanation so easily.

And he didn't. With a shake of his head John dismissed her suggestion. "No, it was pretty exciting in Afghanistan. And like I said, no Christmas cards."

Ella wouldn't let the option drop so easily. "But that was a whole different set of circumstances. You were fighting a war, risking your lives at least theoretically every day. In those kind of situations some people prefer to detach themselves so as to protect themselves from the potential loss of their friends."

John shook his head again. "No, no, I'm not buying that. That's not it. I don't know exactly why but I know it's not like that. The men I served with, they were good people - I mean, you met Sherlock. What did you think of him?" John looked at Ella, narrowing his eyes a bit. He knew what she was thinking before she even thought about it.

She was caught slightly off guard and it showed in her hesitation. "I... I thought he was a bit.. I'm sure he is quite different when you get to know him." A weak attempt of a save.

John couldn't help chuckling. "It's OK, you can say what you think. Arrogant? Rude? Trust me, I've heard the worst definitions of him and then some. And the thing is, he is _not_ different when you know him. Not that I do. But when you're around him, he is just like he was when he barged in here. He never pretends to be anything he is not - well, that's not entirely true but in the context we are talking about it is close enough - and the truth is that he _is_ arrogant, and rude, and selfish, and heaven knows what else." John said all this with a mild smile on his face.

Now it was Ella's turn to be confused. "But I don't understand. Why.. If he is so impossible, then the whole thing makes even less sense."

John leaned back in his chair and allowed his eyes to travel to the ceiling. The afternoon sun coloured it with its warm hue. "It doesn't, actually."

Ella's posture, in reflection, straightened. "Oh?"

John turned his eyes back to Ella's and lingered in the warmth of them for a while. The moment had suddenly turned into a defining one; suddenly there was a new level of understanding in John's existence. "The difference between Sherlock - an ass as he may be at times - and all the other people I have had the good fortune of being friends or lovers with in my lifetime is that I trust him. I said that I feel like I want to trust, but that only applies when it comes to these other people. When it comes to Sherlock - I already do. I trust him like I have never trusted anyone."

Ella stayed silent for a while as if taking in what John had said. Then she asked with a low, gentle voice, "But why? Why do you trust him?"

"I think.. I think the core of it comes down to yet another.. How did you put it, "a break from routines", that happened about a week ago. I told you about it the last time, remember, the bomber - " Ella nodded as a sign of following, "- and what happened at the swimming pool."

Ella quickly turned back a few pages. "You told me there was this man, Mr. Moriarty? He threatened to kill you and Sherlock."

John nodded. His eyes were still turned to Ella but he didn't see her anymore; in front of him he now saw the pool, heard the echoes of every footstep , every sound in his ears, could even smell the chlorine. When he spoke his voice was quiet. "I had a bomb strapped to my chest, and I had to go there. I knew I was putting Sherlock's life at risk but ashamed as I am to say it, I had no choice. So I went, and I knew I could die any second; and when I stepped in and Sherlock saw me, when he saw the bomb..."

John fell silent for a few seconds; Ella didn't say a word.

Inside his head John saw how Sherlock turned to him, saw the surprise on his face and heard the shock in his voice-

_"John?"_

_- _And when John opened his jacket, and Sherlock saw the bomb vest-

"... When he saw the bomb, he stepped towards me. Not away, like any sane person would have. I had enough explosives on me to take down half a block, and Sherlock stepped _towards_ me." John's voice was now very calm, very solid, and very quiet. "And that is why I trust him."

Ella didn't reply; there were no arguments to make.

* * *

*nervous twitch* what do you think?


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia

Here we go, sorry for the delay. And thank you ever so much about the supportive feedback, it really does mean the world to me.

All usual disclaimers apply, of course. Hail the Moftiss!

* * *

The downpour had lasted for weeks. The continuous rain kept washing the streets of London with its even, uninterrupted rhythm; in fact, the rain had lasted so long that it had started to feel it was a inseparable part of the city and its scenery, like the Big Ben or the Millennium Bridge. It wasn't particularly strong a rain but very persistent, very thorough if you will; surely enough to drench you if you ventured out without a protection of any kind.

John had made that very mistake. He was on his way to his appointment, the schedule was tight but he would make it if the tube was working as it should Something one shouldn't have exactly relied on, but he had no other choice as the tap turned on from the skies above had resulted in the fact that basically every cab in the city was continuously taken.

As he made his way towards the tube station, his collar turned up in a somewhat useless effort to shield himself from the rain, the question whether or not he had done the right thing by lying to Sherlock about Irene's death circled in his head like a mouse trapped into a box. Just a few minutes ago he had looked Sherlock in the eye and told him that the infamous Ms Adler was alive and well, relocated in the States, even as he had known her to be dead. Or rather, Mycroft had known, which was probably the best John had to go with.

Either way, John had known the truth to be something else than what he had told Sherlock. John didn't like lying - - honesty is the best policy, as worn-out as the phrase might have been - and now he had done so to his best friend. Whether Sherlock believed it or not didn't really matter - the bottom line remained the same. So the question was, why had he done it? Why had he lied to Sherlock when there had been absolutely no reason to do so?

John had arrived to the station and couldn't help a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as everything seemed to be working normally. He might just make it in time to see Ella, something he had to admit he was almost looking forward to – due to the inconvenience placed by Christmas and New Year and followed by her catching the flu and John being terribly busy with something he no longer had a clear recollection of, the break between their appointments had stretched into the longest one so far. Ella had said it was probably a good thing, as it would give John a bit of a breather; perhaps go through the things they had discussed in the course of the months he had been visiting her, and also to try to use some of the techniques Ella had suggested for him to clear his thoughts and figure out in a more efficient manner where the different feelings and attitudes he had came from.

The station was surprisingly quiet for a Friday afternoon; something John couldn't say he would have been very sorry about. He made his way to the escalator and as the silvery stairs carried him somewhere deeper under ground the question he had posed himself just minutes ago raised its head again.

_Why did I lie?_

Until he had met Mycroft that morning and learnt the news about Irene's death, John had been very much under the impression that Sherlock had came very close loathing Irene - but as Mycroft had questioned if the referral to her as "the woman" was indeed a salutation instead of an insult, it suddenly hadn't seemed so apparent anymore. On the contrary,when you considered Sherlock's somewhat different take on things and the undeniable impact Irene had made on the man otherwise so little interested in the members of the opposite sex (OK, in all honesty both sexes) it wasn't actually so difficult now to believe the case to be exactly that - the one woman, the one that counts. Perhaps it was because of this sudden and most certainly unexpected realization that John had decided to go with the option he had – to tell Sherlock not that she was dead but that she was merely forever unreachable.

But the answer didn't feel sufficient. Of course Sherlock would have been able to handle the truth; there seemed to be nothing he couldn't handle. It was true that when Irene had faked her death Sherlock had been... stirred, I guess you could call it that. But yet he had managed, he hadn't been shattered; there was no obvious reason why the second time around he would have taken the news any more severely. And yet, up until to the point when they had first thought that Irene was dead, it had always appeared to John that there was nothing that could have moved Sherlock, nothing that touched him. Having misjudged things once, how could John then have known how the _confirmed_ information about her death would have affected Sherlock? So perhaps John was wrong also in assuming that Sherlock didn't care about women (well, people) that way – perhaps he had, in fact, cared for Irene?

Was it so that Irene had captured something in Sherlock in a way no one ever had, and was it so that loosing her, even the thought, the possibility of her, would have made Sherlock hurt?

Was it so that John hadn't wanted to find that out?

The approaching tube pushed the thought away before John had time to properly grasp it. He stepped into the carriage and remained standing, even if there were seats available; it was only a few stops anyway. As the doors slammed shut and the train dived into the tunnel ahead and the view to the platform changed into the darkness that was the wall of the tunnel, John was suddenly left staring at his own reflection from the doors. His features were distorted in the curved glass (or was it really glass, probably not) and for a second he was taken aback by look of confusion on his face.

He stared at himself, unable to turn his eyes away from the reflection.

_"…if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."_

_"Well I _am_."_

_Silence so complete John is able to hear his heartbeat._

_Then Irene's voice, cutting the silence into shreds. "Look at us both."_

He heard Irene's voice in his head as clear as she would have been standing there again, opposite to him in that empty hall, dissecting him with few little words that bore so much perception. She had asked John if he was jealous; she had said they were a couple, him and Sherlock. _"Look at us both"_, she had said, and with that sealed them both into the same curse; being infatuated with a man incapable of returning that infatuation, and if that wasn't enough, being infatuated against their better judgement. Unable to stop themselves even when the battle was sure to be the losing kind.

Something in John protested. He was not, in fact, infatuated with Sherlock. Sherlock was his friend, probably the best one John had ever had; certainly the most challenging one. Of course he cared for Sherlock, and of course he was fascinated by him – who wouldn't have been once you got past all (or at least some) of his oddities – but to imply that he would somehow be in love with him, or want him – No, most certainly that was not the case.

And yet.

"_You jealous?"_

"_We´re not a couple." _

_But yes, yes, I think I just might be._

Oh God.

The doors of the train opened with a bang and John startled; it was his stop. He stepped out from the carriage but instead of walking towards the exit remained standing on the platform; he felt like he needed a moment. The train speeded away and left behind a whirlwind of warm air and the quickly fading rattle of the tracks; and for a few seconds John was standing there on the platform by himself in the almost complete silence. The moment correlated perfectly with the stunned feeling left behind by the realization he had just had.

There was a bench there and he sat on it, staring at an O2-advertisement on the wall on the opposite side of the tracks. The plastic of the seat felt very solid under him and John was grateful for that; at least something he could rely on.

So could it really be so – that the reason he had lied to Sherlock was that he hadn't wanted to see the level of impact Irene's death would have had? Was it so that John hadn't wanted to test just how deep Irene's death would have cut Sherlock?

Could it really be that he had been jealous?

Had he wanted to spare Sherlock's nonexistent feelings, or his own?

John's head felt slightly light. Bloody hell, what on earth was going on? He closed his eyes for a while, trying to find some strain of thought he could grasp, something he could recognize as his own and not as something planted in his head by Irene. Because that was what surely was going on; the news about Irene's death had made John think about her, and all the things she had said. It didn't mean that any of it had any truth in it, and it most certainly didn't mean that John would have sported feelings deeper than friendship towards Sherlock.

Obviously not.

Right?

Right.

He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, not giving much thought to the fact that to the people around him – the platform had started to fill again from the sea of passengers trickling down from the world above – his behaviour might have seemed somewhat peculiar. John sat there for a minute or two, his eyes still fixed on the O2-ad, and gathered his straying thoughts the best that he could.

As soon as he felt he was more or less in balance again, he stood up and started to head towards the exit. He would be late now for his appointment, not much but a minute or two; but Ella would understand the way the she always did.

x

x

x

Some ten minutes later John was already sitting on the familiar chair, surrounded by the familiar appointment room, staring into Ella's familiarly solid and trustworthy eyes.

Ella's smile, warm and genuine as always; her even voice uttering the question she had asked John so many times before. "So, John, how are you doing? It has been a while."

John returned the smile. "It has, hasn't it. I'm OK, was a bit busy there for a while but now things seem to have settled down a bit."

Ella opened her notepad. "Anything in particular you would want to talk about?"

John already opened his mouth to say no – as he usually did - but then closed it with a snap. He stayed silent for a few seconds, and then continued with a tone somewhat more cautious, "Actually, there is."

The look of surprise on Ella's pleasant face stated that she hadn't been expecting that reply. "Well, I'm glad. What is it?"

John sifted a bit in his chair. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to open this door, but on the other hand – who else could he have talked to about the subject, if not a person paid to keep your secrets safe?

John's reply came slowly. "I would like to talk about jealousy."


	6. The Hounds of Baskerville

It has been a while, I know. I am sorry!

Thank you ever so much for all the support, it is the reason I forced myself to find the time to keep writing this.

One more chapter to come after this.. I'll do my utmost best to get it up quicker than this one.

As always, feedback is more than highly appreciated. Thank you for reading.

* * *

The Hounds of Baskerville

The conversation flows somewhat effortlessly. The two voices involved are low and relaxed; sometimes there are pauses but not the type that make one feel awkward. She is not the only one making questions anymore as he has adopted a role more active, more curious; he wants to know more, understand more, and is now also more willing to make an effort than he was in the beginning of their relationship. Even if he probably wouldn't admit it, their sessions have helped him in many ways. They have allowed him to ask himself questions he otherwise would have dared not to, wouldn't even have acknowledged that they needed to be asked; and they have given him some of the tools to try to answer those questions as well. He no longer immediately denies options or possibilities without first properly considering their plausibility, and even if he hasn't yet arrived to any life-changing revelations, there are certain issues that he now sees in a different light. Thanks to her, he is now aware of the fact that he doesn't have to be something he has made himself to be and that he doesn't have a responsibility towards no one else but himself. This is something he hasn't completely mastered as of yet - he still feels weight on his shoulders over things beyond his control - but at least he now knows, at least on a theoretical level, that he can change this, he can change himself should he want to do so.

There is now a rapport between the psychologist and her patient; and the fact that this is their last session causes a twinge of sadness in both of them.

But there is still some time left of this last session; and in a setting like this, time is best spent talking. They have begun the session in a way that has become a familiar pattern, a dance they dance every time they meet - at first Ella asks how John is doing, to which he replies with something more or less mundane and returns the question. In the beginning, during their first sessions, the question was presented more out of politeness than out anything else; but now it is springing from a genuine interest. John has grown to like Ella, and really wants to know how life is treating her. After her reply, which she often keeps short but yet personal enough so as to assure him she is well, she asks if there is something John would in particular want to discuss about; if there isn't, as it sometimes happens, she asks what he has been up to since their last meeting. As he goes through the list, often full of surprising and sometimes dangerous events, sooner or later a topic surfaces. Their last meeting has brought no exception to the rule.

John had been telling her about what happened in Dartmoor. He told her about Henry Knight and the trauma that had cast a shadow on his whole life, the secret government research centre, about the hound and how they learnt the truth about the whole situation. As he had been describing these events with his even, calm tone, it still managed to surprise Ella how John was able to recap these events with such a nonchalant, almost detached way. It was like these adventures he seemed to come across so often, these life-threatening situations and incidents that would have left many (well, probably most) people shaking seemed as if they were nothing that special at all. It could have been the army training, but Ella suspected it had more to do with the kind of man that John Watson was.

John had just finished his description of the recent events and was now leaning back in his chair. He had lost some weight, Ella thought, and his new, shorter haircut had returned some of the aura of an army officer that he had shed a bit during the time she had known him. Was it unintentional, or had something triggered a desire for more order, a redefinition of borders? John did seem just a bit more reserved somehow, perhaps a bit more quiet; Ella had learnt his ways well enough by now to sense that there was more to the story John had just shared than he had put into words.

Only question remaining now was what. And whether she would have enough time to dig it out from him before the clock would strike the end of this last session.

"Well, that certainly was something you don't come across with every day. But by now, of course, I shouldn't be surprised by something like this happening to you, should I?" Her voice was warm.

John allowed a small, almost apologetic smile enter his face. "I guess I do get into situations like that a bit more than the next guy."

Ella raised an eyebrow. "Now there's an understatement if I ever heard one. But tell me, John, how do you feel about that? We have never really talked about that, how do you really feel about constantly being thrown into these sometimes dangerous situations."

John looked slightly surprised by her question. "How do I _feel_ about it? Well, I... I don't know, I have never thought about it that way. It just happens, and I go along with it. I don't feel distressed by it if that is what you are asking." His voice revealed nothing beyond his words.

Ella thought for a while and decided to change her approach. "OK then. You are not distressed by these adventures. Perhaps you enjoy them. But do you think that these events, these cases as you call them sometimes - for example this last one you just told me about, have they resulted in some kind of unpleasant experiences, some unwanted feelings?"

John squinted his eyes a bit. "Why are you asking me this?" There was a trace of caution in his otherwise neutral voice.

Ella tilted her head a bit and smiled. "Because that's my job, John. But besides that, I am asking because I sense a some kind of change in you since our last appointment, and you didn't give any explanation as of why such a change would have taken place. So I am guessing that either you are not telling me everything -" She held a small, meaningful pause, "or then there is something you yourself haven't perhaps recognized yet. So let me ask again - did something happen during this last case that made you feel or realize something you hadn't before?"

A short silence followed her question. The expression on John's face was next to impossible to interpret; but the shadow that crossed his features told its own message.

When John spoke again his voice sounded a bit hesitant, as if he would have not been sure of what he was saying or been slightly reluctant to say it. "Perhaps there was something. Or maybe it was nothing. It's just.. Well, I told you that there was this chemical - if you were subjected to it, it heightened your fears. Really freaked you out. And Sherlock had it too in, and I told you how he got a bit.. Well, let's say he didn't react necessarily all that well."

Ella nodded. "Go on."

John rubbed his chin. "What I didn't tell you is what he said. And it doesn't really matter anymore, he had been drugged and didn't know how to deal with his fear, and he did apologize - it's not what he said that bothers me. I know he can be a tit, and all that, and it's fine, but it did make me think."

"What did he say, then?" Ella kept her eyes on John; there had been a change in his presence and she wasn't entirely sure if John was aware of it himself.

John shook his head. "It doesn't matter. But what I got from that, what it made me think - it scared me. In a way. There is so much I have learnt from him, so many things he has given to me. He is my best friend, and I have never said that about anyone. And I'm afraid that..." His voice trailed off.

"You are afraid of losing him?" Ella's voice was clear and calm; the question swirled in the air like a wounded bird.

John nodded ever so slightly. "I guess... I guess I am. But it is hard to explain. What he said that night, it took me aback even if it probably shouldn't have. I know what he is like. And I know he probably didn't mean it. And it's not even the point; it just made me realize that Sherlock has the capability to cause that kind of fear in me. No one has ever had that power over me, I have never really _needed _anyone. And I think I need him, as weird as it may sound. And that... That makes me afraid. I feel something is no longer in my control." He had kept his eyes directed to the window when he spoke; but now he turned his focus back to Ella. John's eyes were bare; he had laid his soul in front of her to see.

Ella did the only thing she could imagine. She leaned forward and placed her hand on top of his, resting on the armrest, and hoped that the gentle squeeze she gave him would be enough to convey her reaction.

Her voice was as gentle and warm as her touch. "There's nothing to be afraid in that, John. Nothing at all. I know it can feel like that, and I myself certainly don't always know how to contain that fear. It's the price we have to pay when we care for someone. Don't be afraid of it but embrace it; as long as it is there, you know that you have something really valuable."

They stayed like that for a while. Then John nodded, smiled and squeezed her hand back. "Of course I know that. Of course. I'm just not used to it, I suppose."

Ella leaned back in her chair and returned the smile. "That can only mean that it is something special."

There was a knock on the door. The receptionist, a plain girl in her late twenties, poked her head in, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry to bother, but your Ms. Morstan is here."

Ella looked at her and noded. "Thank you, Gemma. Tell Mary I'll see her in a minute."

The door closed and Ella turned her eyes back to John. "Well, this was our last session. I hope you have gained something from coming here, and remember, if you ever feel the slightest need to talk about something, you know where to find me."

John smiled. "I appreciate the offer. It has been a pleasure, Ella." He stood up and straightened his jacket. He appeared to be slightly lighter than he did when he had walked in from the door. As for the future, Ella could only hope that she has given him enough tools to come to terms with his feelings a bit better than he was able to before; something tells her that there are still plenty of doors left unopened inside the man in front of him.

Ella stood up as well, and instead of offering him her hand she stepped closer to give him a hug. "Goodbye John, and take care of yourself."

As John hugs the woman he has revealed so much of himself and acknowledges this is the last time he will talk to her, he is aware of the fact that this closure is not necessary. John knows that he could continue their sessions if he wanted to. All it would require is a word from him, an indication that he would want to do so, and Ella would find room for him in her calendar. But he won't, and Ella knows that he is not going to; she knows that this is the last time she will talk with John Watson in this room.

Unless something completely unexpected happens, something that will throw him completely off balance, shatter his world and shake the roots of his very existence she won't see him again; and completely unselfishly, out of the good will her heart feels towards the army doctor, she hopes that she never will.

They embrace like old friends about to travel separate ways. Then they part, give each other a smile, and with that John is out of the door.


	7. The Reichenbach Fall

SO; the last chapter. See? I did faster! Thanks for this goes to Lucy36 for giving me the idea of the approach to this chapter.

Thank you for sticking with me throughout the story, I do hope you have enjoyed it at least a fraction as much as I did writing it. Thank you for the comments as well, means the world to get some feedback.

Hope you like xx

ML

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**The Reichenbach Fall**

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_DENIAL_

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The nights were the worst.

During the days John was numb. When awake his mind was able to build up barriers against the pain, closing the gates of the walls enclosing his sanity and stopping the grief from crushing in with all its force. He focused on getting through the days, to the simple act of breathing; never before had he realized just how much strength it required. He didn't think about Sherlock, didn't go through the events in his head; he couldn't bring himself to do it as it felt that it might have given the pain the strength it needed to break through his shields and wipe away everything he was. The knowledge was there, hovering around him like an evil spirit or a cloud of foul air; the empty rooms of Baker Street were filled with the fact that Sherlock wasn't there anymore; but John chose to look the other way.

So John spent his days - didn't know how many of them, it really made no difference - in a state of complete shock and denial. To the outside world it probably seemed he was managing OK, he functioned as people did and spoke when spoken to. But he didn't remember what he had done yesterday and didn't know what he would do tomorrow; sometimes it was difficult for him to think that there was tomorrow. There was certain grace in his denial, perhaps; it might have been the very thing that kept him going during the days following Sherlock's death.

But nights - nights were different. It was then when his mind gave in to the unconscious; when the grief stepped in and overwhelmed his dreams with visions and memories and the sheer, undeniable acknowledgement of what had happened. In his dreams he was always there, standing next to St. Bart's ans Sherlock was always up there, on the rooftop. And he always fell, always always always; and he always hit the ground.

He always died.

Sometimes he fell fast, sometimes slower; and every time John thought that if he could make it to him in time, if he could be there before he hit the ground he wouldn't die, that he could save Sherlock; but he never did.

_Goodbye, John._

Every night in his dreams Sherlock died, over and over again; and every time if felt just like it had been the first time. In his sleep John had no way of stopping this from happening, witnessing the single most devastating incident of his life, and every morning when he woke up he couldn't tell which hurt more, his heart or his soul.

Of course he knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that eventually he would have to admit to himself also during the daylight hours that Sherlock was dead; that even if he would sit in the living room of 221b Baker Street until the end of days staring at the door until his eyes went blind it would not open and bring Sherlock back.

But right now it was too early; getting through the days that followed each other, each similar to the one before and to the one after, was all he was able to deal with.

x

x

x

It was hard to say when the thought first emerged, or how long had it been since Sherlock's death. The fact that it did in the first place was probably the first fumbling step towards accepting his death - when it occurred to John that he should probably talk to someone, it also meant that there was something to talk about.

Of course he could have talked to Mrs. Hudson, or Molly - who had been putting in quite a few calls if his memory served him right - or perhaps some friend who hadn't known Sherlock. But for some reason none of these options felt proper; if he had talked with someone who had known Sherlock, their own reaction to his death would be part of the conversation as well, and John had no particular interest towards that right now; and if he had talked to someone who had never met Sherlock John would have been forced to describe his friend, talk about him instead of his death which was what he needed to deal with, and that wouldn't do much good.

So the only person he could think of to talk to, the only one who knew who Sherlock was - well, had been - and had any idea what he had meant to John was Ella.

He picked up the phone and made the call; Ella told him to come the same day.

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_ANGER_

_._

"Why today?"

Of course Ella knew why today. The reason why John Watson was sitting opposite to her again, after eighteen months of silence, had been plastered all over the city for the last two weeks. The suicide of the fake genius - the press had gone wild, they literally loved it and hearing about the incident would have been impossible to avoid. When Ella had first learnt the news it had taken her a moment to connect the dots in her head - so far off had the description of the press been from the Sherlock Holmes she had learnt to know through John. But when she had realized who the man fallen into his death from the rooftop of St. Bart's had been, her insides had gone cold out of the pain she had known John was somewhere feeling; and she had hoped that he would come to her. She had wanted to help him during this time of what she could only imagine to be of unbearable pain and grief.

And here John was, two weeks later; and from his demeanor, the way he held himself and the way he moved and from the way words dropped out from his tongue like talking would have cause him physical pain Ella saw with a painstaking clarity that he did, indeed, need her help.

It was a start that he had now came, the first step on the road towards getting over the loss. But she needed him to say the reason out loud, not because she wouldn't have known what had happened but to make sure _he_ did. If John was ever to come to terms with what had happened and, eventually, move on, he needed to accept the reality of the situation.

"You want to hear me say it?" There was anguish in his voice, and disbelief almost; that she would actually force him to utter the words he yet had not spoken out loud to anyone.

Ella saw how difficult it was for John. Every cell of his being radiated the magnitude of the loss he had experienced. _Yes, John, you need to say it - not because of me, but because of you. _

"You need to get it out."

And as he did, as he said the words and made it known to the world and to himself that Sherlock was dead, as he broke into pieces right there in front of her - that's when Ella saw. That's when she fully comprehended just what Sherlock had been to John, how much he had meant and how much John had lost with him.

The realization made her heart ache; she couldn't even begin to imagine the state of his.

John had covered his eyes with his left hand. His smothered sobs mixed into his heavy, arduous breathing; his shoulders were tense and his right hand gripped the arm rest like his life would have depended on it. And it might as well just have; at that very moment he was hanging on a thread, the whole concept of what was John Watson was on the verge of being swiped away by the hot, white-glowing, blinding grief.

Ella's voice was gentle. "It's OK, John. Let it out."

For a few seconds he stayed still, crushed by his sorrow; then, he slowly shook his head, his face still protected by his palm. "No." His voice was muffled. He shook his head again, sharply this time. "NO."

The explosion of anger that followed was as unexpected as it was strong. In one, brash movement John sprung up from the chair, his whole body tense and his eyes burning with such desperate rage that it distorted his features.

"NO!" He shouted, his hands curled into fists. "It's NOT alright!" With two long steps he was by the wall, hitting it with his fist. "FUCK! Fuck you, Sherlock!"

As fast as the anger had surfaced, as fast it died. His back, now turned to Ella, slumped; like the fury that had now left his body would have inflated him. He placed his right hand - Ella saw that his knuckles were bruised - palm open against the wall, as if looking for support. He leant forward so that his forehead was touching the wall next to his hand. His heavy breath was the only sound in the room.

"I'm sorry. I don't.. I'm sorry." His voice was quiet but Ella heard that he was more or less in control of himself again. His shoulders were rising and lowering in the rhythm of his breathing.

Ella stood up, walked to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "It's a perfectly normal reaction, John. You are angry. Don't try to fight it."

John straightened himself and turned his face to her. The cold light filtering in from the windows next to them made his skin look grey and the creases on his face deeper; it suddenly appeared that John had aged ten years in a second. He looked into her eyes, the look in his own full of pain and loss; and when he spoke his voice sounded defeated. "I miss him, Ella. I miss him so much and I _hate_ him for dying." There were tears in his eyes but he wasn't crying anymore. "I.. I don't know what I am going to do now."

Suddenly Ella realized there were tears burning in her own eyes as well. The pain of the man in front of him was too strong, too complete; it oozed from him and wrapped around her heart like a dark, heavy cloth. Blinking her eyes a few times to drive to tears away she squeezed his shoulder. "We'll find a way, John. We will find a way."

x

Some hour later, when John closed the door of Ella's office behind his back, the exhaustion he felt was both mental and physical. He felt drained, like all life force would have been sucked out of him; and the only thing he could think of was to go and get some sleep.

But he couldn't go to Baker Street. The thought was simply impossible; it was as if talking to Ella about Sherlock's death and starting to process his loss on a conscious level would have opened something inside him, something he had closed on the moment he had seen Sherlock's crushed body on the ground. John felt that if he would enter Baker Street in this state of mind, something would surge out from where ever he had managed to lock it and tore him into pieces as it did; he simply couldn't go back.

What he needed was a neutral environment, something that wouldn't remind him of Sherlock. Somewhere where he could be left alone; so no friend's place would do either. A hotel would get expensive fast, so he might need to rent a place-

A surprised "Ouch!" escaping the lips of the petite woman he had just walked into brought John back from his thoughts. She had been standing next to the stairs leading up to the entrance door of Ella's office and John, consumed by his thoughts and exhaustion as he was, had bumped straight into her.

"Christ, sorry, are you alright?" John's head was spinning; the woman was already collecting the contents of her dropped bag from the pavement. He knelt down next to her in order to help. "I'm so sorry, I was in my thoughts..." His voice trailed off and his movements slowed down. He felt so tired.

The woman closed her bag with one, angry movement and raised her eyes from the ground, about to lash out to him - but as she saw the expression on his face, blank and tired and his features painted with the heaviness that was his heart, what ever snide comment she may have had died on her lips. Instead, she stood up and offered John her hand.

"No worries. Are you alright?" She had a kind voice with a hint of cautiousness in it. No wonder; John looked like a mess.

John, still on his kneels on the ground, looked first at her hand and then up to her face. She was quite short, had blond hair and delicate features; the small hand offered to him for help was covered by a sleek, black leather glove. John shook his head. "No, I'm not." His voice wasn't much more than a mumble and she probably didn't hear what he had said.

John stood up without her help, slowly as if he had been in physical pain. He looked at her again; there was something familiar in her face but he had no energy or interest to think from where he might have known her. "Sorry again." His voice was tired.

The woman tilted her head a bit, like a small bird. Her eyes were big and grey and had an emphatic look in them. "Don't worry about it."

John stared at her, blinked a few times and was vaguely aware of the fact that he probably appeared like a crazy person.

Somehow, it didn't matter.

The woman squinted her eyes a bit as if thinking of something and then said, "Well, have a good day, then." She turned around on her heels and climbed up the stairs towards Ella's front door.

It was only after the door had closed behind her that John realized he was squeezing something in his hand. With slow, dull movements he opened his fist and looked at his hand. It was a letter - her letter, obviously, a one he had picked up from the ground and failed to return to her. Carefully he smoothed the creases of the envelope and looked at the name of the recipient.

Mary Morstan.

.

.

.

_BARGAINING_

_._

It had been two months. John would have wanted to be able to say that it had gotten easier; but it hadn't.

If anything, his pain was now more sharp, more cunning. It had eased its grip in a sense that he was able to breathe again without a conscious effort; but that was about the extent of the leash he had been given. The pain was his daily companion, like a stone in his shoe he couldn't shake off; except this stone was inside his heart and its edges were sharper than razor. If there ever was a second when he forgot the pain in the next it was back, stabbing him with a force that made his stomach turn.

And if that wasn't enough, the pain was now coloured with what-ifs.

What if I hadn't fallen for the trick of someone shooting Mrs. Hudson?

What if I had got back faster?

What if I had had the right words to stop him from jumping?

What if I had understood the reason why he said the things he did and be able to stop it?

What if I had had the time to say what I wanted?

What if I had been able to stop this all from happening?

Ella had told him that he would eventually start to ask these questions from himself. That it was an instrumental part of the process of dealing with his grief; that given the chance he would have played dare with the devil to get Sherlock back.

And he would; by God, he would.

_"There's stuff that you wanted to say ..."_

_John's mouth opens as if to say something; then he closes it again._

"... but didn't say it."

_" Yeah." His heart bleeds and the blood rises up in his throat, smothering his voice._

_"Say it now."_

_"No. Sorry. I can't. " His voice breaks; even if he could bring himself to say the things he never got to say, he wouldn't have the voice for it._

I would say it now.

If I could get Sherlock back, I would say it.

I would.

I..

.

.

Mary calls her sometimes; she asks how he is doing and offers to bring over some food. Four times out of five John refuses; but she doesn't seem intimidated by his lack of interest towards human contact.

Ever since John returned her the letter he accidentally took, Mary seems to have taken him under her wing - in a sense that she seems to understand something of what he is going through and tries to help him the best she can. John doesn't know how she could possibly relate to his situation, and quite frankly he is not very interested in this, either; he simply lacks the strength to ask other people how they are doing. Sometimes, when they talk over the phone of when she invites herself over for a cuppa John experiences a passing interest towards her story; but then the pain stabs him again and his heart doubles up in pain. This is always when he excuses himself and ends the conversation; and every time Mary seems to understand and doesn't get offended or take his bluntness personally.

Somehow, Mary understands.

And sometimes, not often but it has happened once or twice - when he talks to her, the pain eases its grip just a bit.

.

.

_DEPRESSION_

_._

"John, what is it? John?" Ella's voice, as professional as she tries to keep it, is coloured with a shade of worry. Three months ago she made an exception to her own rules and gave John her personal number - partly because she felt he might have needed it and partly because she knew that he would never use it unless he absolutely had to. And now, when her cell rang five twenty-seven in the morning, the caller ID telling it's John Watson calling and the other end of the line staying mute after she picked up, she knows something is seriously amiss.

She can hear his breath.

"John, please, talk to me. What is it?" The worry in her voice gains strength even as she does a very good job in hiding it.

He mumbles something she cannot make anything out of. "Come again?"

"Sorry.. I'm sorry to bother you but.." John's voice is quiet and has a horrible hollowness in it.

"Nothing to be sorry about, John." And she means it.

Ella turns on the light on her nightstand and rubs her eyes with her left hand. "What's wrong, John?"

John stays silent for a while; Ella can tell that part of his hesitation springs from the fact that he is calling her at this hour, no matter that she had said it to be OK.

When he speaks, his voice sounds like it is coming from a place far darker than the night that is still prevailing outside her bedroom window. It's flat, resigned and without any colour; it is merely a tool for stating a fact. "He really is not coming back. Sherlock is really dead."

Ella nods and then remembers he cannot see her. "Yes." Her voice is soft and she hopes the compassion she feels towards him is delivered in her tone.

John clears his throat. "I mean.. I couldn't sleep tonight. At all. And... I don't understand. Why..." His voice trails off and for a second Ella thinks he has hung up. Then he continues, the words dragging out from his mouth like a dying animal that crawls into a cave to die. "When does this end? When do I get over this? Am I going mad?" She hears from his voice that his fear is genuine.

Ella stood up from the bed and sat on the edge of it. Her own reflection stared back at her from the window pane. She looked tired and older than her age. "It's normal to feel depressed. You are not going mad, you are just processing your pain. The loss is now settling in to you, you are starting to accept the reality, and it can cause sadness much deeper than what you have experienced so far. It is normal, John, perfectly normal."

Her words linger in the air. She knows what she is saying doesn't offer him much relief; she knows that nothing she can do or say will take away his pain. Only time can do that, and no one can know how much time he needs; Ella knows from experience that sometimes the depressive state can last for months. She hopes from the bottom of her heart that this is not the case with John.

She stands up and walks to the kitchen. As she puts the kettle on she says, "Listen, John, it would be good if you would get some company now. I would come myself but I'm flying out to a conference in a few hours. Is there anyone you could call, a family member or a friend?" She doesn't want John to be alone; even if she is quite certain that he would never harm himself, she still would prefer to have someone to keep him company.

John seems to be thinking; he stays silent for a bit. Then he replies, "Yes. It's OK. I know who to call."

Ella feels relieved. "Good. I'm glad. Call me back in the afternoon, OK?"

"Sure."

Ella knows he probably won't. Just as she thinks he has hung up, his voice emerges once more; this time a bit stronger. "Ella?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything." And she hears how much John means it; means it from the bottom of his broken heart.

.

After he has ended the phone call with Ella, John walks to the kitchen of his new apartment and goes to the cupboard. There, on the middle shelf next to the tea mugs, is a piece of paper. He takes the paper and dials the number.

The phone rings only a few times; when she picks up she doesn't sound like she would have been sleeping at all. "Hello?"

John takes a deep breath. "Mary? It's John. Could you... Could you come over?"

.

.

.

_ACCEPTANCE_

_._

Acceptance doesn't mean that things are OK. It doesn't mean that John is fine with what has happened, and it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt anymore. The pain has become dull instead of sharp, and even if the knowledge will never leave him, John doesn't think about him constantly anymore.

Sherlock no longer dies in his dreams every night.

What acceptance means, and this really is the best he can hope for, is that he has come to terms with reality. He has learnt how to live with it, how to deal with it so that it doesn't paralyze him anymore. It means that the number of good days exceeds the number of bad days, and it means that he can now live again. It is not always easy, but he manages.

It has been two years and ten months since Sherlock fell to his death; and tomorrow John will be wed to the woman who pulled him out from the darkness that fall pushed him into.

Life goes on; and so must he.

Even if there are things that were never said.

.

-FIN-


End file.
